The Broken Trust Affair
by katbybee
Summary: An expansion of "The Waiting for the Ring Affair." Amid disgrace, dismissal, and romance for one partner, the other partner, though he has found justice for his former friend; must now find a way to bridge the distance between them. Will their pathways be separated forever, or can they find common ground where there seems to be nothing left? R/R Usual Disclaimers. ON HIATUS
1. Don't You Ever Call Me That Again!

Chapter One-"Don't You Dare Ever Call Me That Again!"

1975

Napoleon Solo was nervous. An unusual state for him, to be sure, but still… He had not seen Illya in nearly three long years, and he didn't know how his old partner would receive him. He wanted him back. UNCLE wanted him back…but after that last disastrous mission…and the horrid outcome for Illya, in all likelihood; Illya would never want to see him again. So, a few nerves were quite natural; and the flight to Virginia was spent in fear and self-doubt.

The betrayal of his partner had not been Napoleon's, but Illya never knew that. And Illya had paid the price…a terrible price. Disgrace; and dismissal. And now, after painstaking investigation on the part of UNCLE, the truth had been discovered, the traitor punished…and UNCLE had tasked Napoleon Solo with righting a terrible injustice.

Just finding Illya had taken months. He had finally been located in a small valley in the Ozarks. What he was doing there was anyone's guess. As a former member of the Soviet military, and the KGB, Illya Kuryakin was an expert at keeping his activities completely hidden from all surveillance of any kind, although there was _apparently_ no technology anywhere around; no sign of any kind of civilization at all. No one could get close to his location. Several unsuccessful attempts had already been made.

At first, Napoleon had thought this odd, until he remembered Illya's family…his wife. And then it all made sense. Napoleon Solo was sure what he would find if he found Illya. _When_ he found him. And he was equally sure, then, that Illya would never willingly return to UNCLE.

Through his contacts at the Alexandria office, Napoleon arranged to be dropped as near to Illya's last known location as possible. Living as he apparently did, Illya could be anywhere, the field agent had cautioned Napoleon. But Solo had a good idea that Illya didn't move around as much as was thought. _He's a smart Russian, you see..._ Napoleon's heart twisted with grief at this familiar thought. How he missed his partner! He had grown to hate working alone, but had refused to work with any other partner. Not after what UNCLE had done to Illya…

1972

"After ten years together, _partner_?" Illya Kuryakin spat the word contemptuously. "You! You would do this to me? Be a party to this…this betrayal? I did nothing! I had nothing to do with that file, and you know it! You were there—you saw it all!"

As much as it hurt him, Napoleon _hadn't_ seen what happened to the file. And he couldn't lie about it, even though he wanted to. The surveillance camera had shown Illya himself had taken the disk. The evidence was clear. And Napoleon _wasn't_ in the room with Illya the whole time. Illya also knew that. He had begged a few minutes to go out and make a personal, private call. Napoleon knew about those calls. He knew about the special transmitter Illya had rigged so those calls couldn't be traced, and Napoleon knew why. But UNCLE didn't. And when they found both the file and the transmitter on Illya, and he refused to explain the transmitter to them…his guilt was obvious to everyone, except Napoleon. But neither agent could explain the presence of the file, a file so sensitive that it could have exposed all the Section Heads to mortal danger, had Kuryakin succeeded in removing it; as he very nearly had. Mr. Waverly was beside himself with grief, although as Section II Head he could not show it as he pronounced the next step…

Justice was swift within UNCLE, though not as harsh as within THRUSH. Illya Kuryakin, Section II, Number 2, was sent to be deprogrammed. His partner, the CEA, Section Chief, Section II, Number I accompanied him. Kuryakin was silent, until Napoleon whispered to him, "I am so sorry, my _tovarisch_ …"

Blazingly cold blue eyes met despairing chocolate ones. "Don't you dare _ever_ call me that again!"

The door closed between them swiftly.

And with that, Illya Kuryakin, UNCLE agent, was gone. When he emerged from the cubicle twenty minutes later, he was led through the maze of hallways, slightly dazed, and out through a doorway into the busy streets of New York City.

Within three days, he had disappeared completely. But at least, UNCLE's secrets were safe once again…or so they thought. The true betrayer, still within their ranks, laughed ironically, sighed with relief, and began to prepare the next move…

1975

As Solo hiked through the dense woods, he marveled at the beauty of his surroundings, while keeping a sharp eye out for traps. It would be just like his former partner to mine the area with booby traps or explosives. In fact, the utter peace and quiet of the area was unnerving the agent even more than any trip wire or bomb could have. At this realization, Napoleon smiled bitterly. Now that _would_ be just like Illya's twisted sense of humor…

Napoleon knew very little of Illya's life before UNCLE, or much of anything of his past at all. The only things he had learned were on the rare occasions when Kuryakin had given him glimpses behind the steel walls he had built up around himself. His childhood had been extremely painful, and he had experienced the horrible loss of his family during the Nazi atrocities. He suspected Illya came from a noble background and wealth, though it had been ripped from the family during Stalin's brutal regime. He knew he was from the Ukraine. Oh, and there was the fact that he had served in both the Soviet Navy and the KGB, was now wanted by the KGB; had a death sentence issued if he ever returned to Russia; and had once burned down an igloo…though he had refused to discuss the finer details of that little caper.* Illya could be an interesting drinking companion when he wanted to be…

For years, not even Napoleon knew a thing about Maryam, his fiery Gypsy wife. They had been married for several years before he ever came to UNCLE. It was her ring he wore. Not a Rom custom, perhaps, but one that pleased her. She insisted that they both have rings made, and one of her uncles had immediately set to work. A narrow, plain gold band was fashioned for Illya, or Niko, as he was known to the tribe, as that was his Gypsy name—taken from his middle name, Nickovich, a family name—and a delicate gold filigree band was crafted for Maryam. They were married within days by the head of the tribe in a ceremony whose celebration went on for days. Illya never could drink vodka or Slivovitz alone with Napoleon without recalling those wonderful happy times. And _no one_ else ever knew.

In fact, Napoleon recalled, the ring was a bone of contention within UNCLE, because his stubborn partner refused to remove it, regardless. He had defied orders as a recruit to remove all personal identification, or anything that could be used against him by an enemy, which included sentimental objects; i.e. the ring. When asked if it was a wedding ring, he was enigmatic and vague, as always, answering that it was a family heirloom. But he still refused to remove it, claiming it had been a promise he had made. The matter had been dropped after an icy stare-down, which Illya had won, hands-down. The only concession he had ever made, was to Mr. Waverly. He would move the ring to his right hand, on occasion, but only for him, out of his vast respect for his superior. And only when the issue was deemed imperative, which was rare indeed. This was the manner of man his partner was. This was why Napoleon knew Illya had not committed the crimes of which he was accused, and why he had spent the past three years tirelessly attempting to clear Illya's name. Justice was finally served, but he was not sure it would do any good now. His thoughts went back to his partner and his ring.

It had been removed from him under torture, but never under _threat_ of torture. He would never allow it. Napoleon had seen him endure much worse pain than he would have received simply over the loss of the ring to his tormentors. Usually, it was removed only after he fell unconscious, or once, after his ring finger had nearly been severed from his hand.

Napoleon knew exactly why: though misplaced, the guilt Illya felt every time it happened ate at his soul. Several times the ring had been discarded or pocketed by his captors. And every time, either Illya himself if he was able, or Napoleon, if he was not, had gotten it back. _Every time_. And patiently, Illya would wait until he was restored to her, and then she would place it back on his finger…just as she had that very first time. Illya carried the scars proudly, as badges of honor to his hidden devotion.

Napoleon only knew because of a mission that had nearly ended Illya's life…when he had asked Napoleon to take his ring to Maryam, and to care for her as would a brother…but the Solo Luck had intervened in the persons of April Dancer and Mark Slate. But that was another story, and he and Illya had lived to fight another day. **

Eventually, Illya had found a way out of the Ukraine for the entire tribe. He never explained it to Napoleon. But he had found a way, and had taken them…somewhere. He would never tell anyone where he went during his time off. But now, Napoleon knew. He had brought his tribe, his family, here. He was one-fourth Rom himself, but Maryam was full-blood. Because he had married her, he was considered a full member of the tribe himself. It was his marriage, his calls to her using the transmitter that he had been protecting. Maryam was the reason he had accepted disgrace. She was the reason Napoleon had said nothing. She was part of the secret that had nearly destroyed the lives of both partners. The betrayal of Illya was the largest part.

Napoleon suddenly found his way blocked by several men, Gypsies, from the look of them, all armed. Their leader suddenly dropped from the tree in front of him and eyed him carefully. His youth surprised him, but the sharp blade at his throat convinced Napoleon not to move. The teenager nodded to one of the men, who tied Napoleon's hand behind him securely, then re-sheathed his dagger. The boy moved to get a better look at him. Napoleon did the same. Riotous curly black hair fell past his shoulders, _but his sinuous, slight build and luminous blue eyes_ …Napoleon's own eyes widened. As his captors stared mockingly at him, the boy said something in to the others in Romany—and then, chin raised proudly, he smiled coldly, one eyebrow canted in a hauntingly familiar expression. There could be no doubt. Apparently, his enigmatic partner hadn't told him quite _everything_ about Maryam. The proof stood before him, in the person of the seventeen-year-old son of Illya Kuryakin.

TBC

*A/N The fact that while in the Soviet Navy, Lt. Illya Kuryakin, assigned to the submarine Moskva, _did in fact_ , burn down an igloo, _is_ canon. It was alluded to by MGM as backstory for the press, but never, as far as I know, mentioned in the series itself. Please see "Lt. Kuryakin's Claim to Fame" by MLaw for an awesome treatment of this particular incident.

**This mission will be elaborated upon in another story, as will other aspects of Illya and Maryam's lives together.


	2. Discoveries

The boy turned sharply away and led the way quickly through the forest. The path was overgrown and obviously not well-traveled. The man dragging Napoleon was not particularly rough with him, but he was not noticeably careful, either.

The boy never said anything further, other than to make sure the men were staying quiet. Napoleon had quickly decided antagonizing his captors would be a very bad idea. Besides, he really wanted to find his partner—his ex-partner—as soon as possible. However, after an hour of being pulled along, Napoleon had had enough. Banking on the fact that Illya had probably taught his son English, he finally whispered, "Hey, kid, you wanna tell Igor here to back off? He's ruining my suit."

The young man froze and turned to face him, gracing him with a very familiar imperious stare. In heavily accented English, he replied, "My name is _not_ "kid." I am Illya Stefanovich Kuryakin. Stefan, to my friends. Which you are not. You may call me Stefanovich." Suddenly a glint of humor showed in his eyes as he cocked his head and smiled. "My father said you would complain about your suit."

He smirked and translated his words into Rom, which had the other two laughing. Stephanovich then pointed to Napoleon's captor who grinned widely and only adjusted his grip slightly as he was introduced. "Also, Mr. Solo, _his_ name is _not_ Igor. His name is Petrov." He smirked again as he pointed to the other young man. " _His_ name is Igor."

Napoleon rolled his eyes as they started off again at a quicker pace than before. _So much for the Solo Charm._

~MFU~

Another half-hour brought them to their destination. Two more young men dropped from the trees near them and joined the group. Obviously, the area was well-guarded, and they were taking no chances. They pushed their way through a copse of tangled vines and branches and into a large clearing. The sight that met Napoleon's eyes nearly took his breath away. He felt as if he had been transported back at least a hundred years. He found himself on the edge of a Gypsy encampment; brightly painted caravans, a few tents, and cooking fires, a variety of farm animals in pens off in the distance…and staring at him curiously, a number of people as variously and brightly clothed as the caravans. None of them looked particularly friendly, and Napoleon saw no sign of Illya.

A beautiful woman with flowing black curls stepped out of one of the caravans and looked him over carefully. Napoleon had not seen her in a very long time, but he recognized her instantly. Maryam stepped up to him, and he stood before her awkwardly, as he was still bound. His captors, except for Stephanovich, had melted into the crowd. Napoleon knew better than to speak, and he stood quietly under her scrutiny. Silently, she held out her hand, and the boy, his eyes mutinous, handed her his dagger. Apparently, he also knew better than to speak.

She looked deeply into his eyes, which made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. His heart dropped at her next move, as she then pressed the point of her son's dagger under his jaw and slowly lifted his chin. She drew no blood, but she could very easily have slit his throat. She held her hand perfectly still as she finally spoke, her dark eyes cold.

"I know why you have come, Mr. Solo. So does my husband. You want to see him. Fine. But make no mistake. If you hurt him, I _will_ kill you."

She spoke to her son without turning her head, or moving the dagger. "You will take Mr. Solo to your father. He is with the horses."

Turning back to Napoleon, she stated flatly, "You were once family. No more. You will not call him by his first name, or by his Rom name, as you were once privileged. You have lost that. It will be up to him, whether you regain that standing. Your betrayal hurt him. Therefore, you have hurt the tribe. You will be treated as any stranger would be treated. Hospitality is always shown to a stranger. But nothing more. After you speak to my husband, he will decide."

Maryam walked behind Napoleon and sliced easily through the ropes binding his wrists. "Now go."

~MFU~

Napoleon's heart was breaking as he followed Stefanovich through the encampment to the other side of the clearing. They followed a pathway through a wooded area on the far side which opened into an even larger meadow. Here, a sight took Napoleon's breath away and temporarily made him forget his problems. For here, he found his partner. And he was without a doubt, completely in his element.

On one side of the meadow was a large paddock. Cantering around the paddock was one of the most beautiful black horses Napoleon had ever seen. The stallion was like none he had ever seen before, larger than any quarter horse, with a longer mane and tail, which both flowed like silk, and shown like satin! And on its back, Illya was going through various acrobatic tricks…some of them so quickly, Napoleon could barely register them. What amazed Napoleon even more was that all of this was being done bareback!

At one point, Illya was balancing in a one-armed handstand when he shouted something in Rom, and the horse sped up to a gallop, and Illya flipped over and immediately began doing a series of back flips and twists. Another shout and the horse slowed back to a canter. Illya then started into a series of side leaps on each side of the horse as they cantered around the paddock. Another command and the horse began to "dance" as Illya performed some balancing and spinning tricks. A final command and the horse slowed to a walk.

Illya then sat cross-legged on the stallion's broad back, patting and talking to the horse, as both horse and man cooled down after their work-out. A few minutes later, the pace slowed even more, and Illya lay down length-wise across the stallion and closed his eyes, his arms hanging down by the great horse's sides, his hands carding the silky mane, seeming to nearly fall asleep. The stallion simply plodded around the paddock, content to commune with his human friend.

Napoleon watched in awed silence. He wished he could freeze this moment forever, so that what was to come wouldn't have to happen at all. His partner looked more at peace than he had ever seen him. For a moment he considered simply turning and walking away. _He could just pretend he had never found Illya at all, and…_

And at that moment, Illya opened his eyes, and looked straight at him. He shut his eyes again for a brief moment, and when he opened them again, the Mask was firmly in place. The one Napoleon recognized so very well. The Ice Prince was there. In this place he did not belong. And Napoleon despised himself for causing the pain only he could read behind the mask.

Illya slipped from the stallion's back and lead the magnificent animal out of the paddock area over to where a stream ran through the back of the meadow. He rubbed the horse down while he drank without once looking at Napoleon. Once Illya was satisfied the stallion was ready, he led him over to the meadow, where a small herd of similar black horses where milling about. Illya patted him and whispered something to the horse, and patted his flank. The horse trotted off to join the others, and only then did Illya turn to look at his former partner.

Illya looked at his son. In Rom he instructed him to return to the camp. When the boy protested, it took only one look from his father to send him back, grumbling under his breath. Napoleon couldn't help but chuckle, as he had recognized the look on his partner's face so very well. And even though there was so much pain between them, Napoleon noticed the slight twitch at the corner of Illya's mouth. It gave him a glimmer of hope. _Maybe all's not lost after all…_

~TBC~


End file.
